


With A Whimper

by lilsmartass



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Obie is evil, Stockholm Syndrome, emotional hurt comfort, mindfuckery, pre Iron Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Written for my Avengers fest challenge/prompt/assignment/thingy for sadness1986; angst, reads like hurt/comfort but the comfort part is the hurt, dark, pre Iron Man, Obadiah Stane works his way into Tony’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Whimper

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Soft R, nothing graphic but dark, possibly squicky themes, non-permanent, main character injury
> 
> Pairing: Obadiah Stane & Tony Stark gen
> 
> Word Count: 15, 300
> 
> Disclaimer: The Avengers aren’t mine, probably for the best considering how I treat them.
> 
> Warning/Spoilers: Pre-Iron Man fic written by someone who knows nothing about the comic universe so possible canon destruction, mindfuckery (Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark – not sexual content), non-sexual desperation watersports, Stockholm syndrome, past emotionally abusive Howard (not physical or sexual or even intentional), profanity.
> 
> About the ending, this fic itself does not really end on a high note. However, it does fit in with the Marvel Movie Universe Canon, so Obadiah does get what he deserves...just several years after these events.

** With A Whimper **

****

 

_Prologue: Obadiah POV_

_Tony had always been unmanageable and unruly, even as a toddler. Privately, Obadiah blames Howard, for not disciplining the boy hard enough when it is obvious even to the most casual of outsiders that most, if not all, of Tony’s antics, stem from a desire for Howard’s attention if not approval. He doesn’t voice his opinions. Howard might be a terrible father, worse even than Obadiah’s own, but in his own way he adores the boy and will hear nothing against him. Just because he_ chooses _not to give the boy praise does not mean he is willing to listen to criticism of him. Still, Obadiah doesn’t have to live with the little brat, doesn’t have to put up with him for anything more than a couple of hours at any given time and it is no true hardship to him to play the benevolent uncle that he is unlikely to have another chance to indulge in. Sometimes spending time with the boy is even fun, even if Anthony Stark is virtually the sole reason Obadiah has no plans of having children of his own._

_When the boy is not showing off, or having needless tantrums, he is all the best parts of his parents. He has Howard’s confidence and charm and charisma without his penchant for name dropping and snide commentary that ranges from patronising to outright cruelty, hurtful however well intended it might be, and he has his mother’s sweetness, there is a gentleness to him a desire to love and be loved that makes the most vicious parts of Obadiah ache to rip into him, to savage him, to show him how worthless such a weakness is. He does not. He has no doubt Howard would kill him without remorse for even indulging in the thought, and this position, co-founder of Stark’s dream business, is too lucrative a position to waste on tormenting a child, even this most fascinating, contradictory child, however delightful such an action might be. Instead he worms his way into their minds and hearts, making himself invaluable, and better still, trusted, in business and out of it._

_By the time Tony is ten, it is obvious that SI is never going to be truly Obadiah’s, no matter how many years of loyal service he gives. It is easy to say that Tony has inherited his father’s brains, his father’s genius for creating, but it is, ultimately, incorrect. Tony is something entirely new. He outstrips Howard’s abilities in every conceivable way, and Howard, for all his devotion to machines found only in the wildest of science fiction cannot visualise the future, and what that future will require, with the perfect clarity that his son can. And Obadiah...well, he’s not a creator, not an inventor. He’s a business man. He needs a Stark._

_Howard is too set in his ways, too arrogant and stubborn and uncompromising, too aware of his own genius. The best Obadiah can do is remove him from the equation, remind him of the debt America owes Captain Rogers, remind Howard that Rogers counted him a personal friend – a thing few men can claim, remark that he is the only one with the money, the resources and the will to find him. It plants the idea, but it would probably not be enough. Then, Obadiah tries (loudly, repeatedly, ostentatiously, with none of the subtlety of his original suggestion) to convince him not to do so, not to pump millions of dollars into a pointless endeavour, not to neglect his own flesh and blood son for the ghost of a man long dead. If there is one certain way to ensure Howard Stark will do something it is to tell him he should not._

_Once Howard is gone, it is easy for Obadiah to assume the mantle of Howard’s best and most trusted friend and inherit Tony. Slowly, he gains the boy’s trust, expertly exploiting cracks that his father’s new absence on top of his ever present emotional distance has wrought in their relationships. It is with soft, soothing words that he massages every one of Tony’s insecurities, making him aware of his failings, making him believe what others say of him, telling him that it is not his fault he cannot live up to the ideal of Rogers, after all, what man could. It is not an easy task, Tony is naturally confident and self-assured and bolstered by teenaged arrogance that he is right. But Obadiah he has known all his life, and these are not words spoken in anger, and eventually it works._

_For a few years, a very few years, it is perfect. Howard is absent, and Maria has her own commitments and Tony has been taught to be dependent on Obadiah who is there for him despite the flaws he is now brutally and cripplingly, aware of. The only one who is there for him despite those flaws. But Tony is a genius and he is young, too young, when he goes to MIT._

_It is Obadiah who pushes him to live alone, telling him he wants as much of the college experience as he can get despite his age. It is the first miscalculation. Instead of isolating him further, that he lives alone gives Tony space away from Obadiah’s poisonous words to grow in confidence. His father’s arrogance has just been waiting for a chance to bloom, and in this environment, (not bullied and shunned as by rights any teenaged genius, years younger than his classmates should be, but instead adored and cosseted as only a too wealthy, too beautiful boy can be) he flourishes. He still distrusts people, scarred by his early experiences, that much is evident when Obadiah visits during the photo shoot for the robot he is being lauded for having created and discovers it is no mere mechanical helper but has an obvious, and quirky, personality of its own. It is not enough however, and Obadiah realises he has lost his best chance at ruling SI with Tony as his puppet._

_He goes home that night and drinks himself into a three day hangover and destroys his penthouse as his pent up fury finds the only outlet it can. Tony is not the helpless unsure child he once was and he will shortly be of age. The only thing that can be salvaged is that no one knows he has always been working to his own agenda; that no one knows just how fiercely and deeply he despises Howard and his son. He tries to content himself with the knowledge that at least his current position is secure, that no one knows what he has been doing, but his long nurtured hatred for the Stark family grows as his bitterness increases._

_Howard dies in a crash that Obadiah did not orchestrate, but is nonetheless indirectly responsible for as it is he who created the emergency in Switzerland that forced Howard to be there in order to give him some privacy to divert funds from one of Howard’s project (that damned reactor that’ll never work) into a project of his own. Howard had driven drunk hundreds of times, thousands of times; Obadiah supposed that this time the winter ice must have worked against him._

_He doesn’t shed a tear. It is all he can do to keep from laughing at the news, but he does a credible impression of shock as hangover and realisation that his plans may once again be an option, take their toll and make his knees so weak he has to grab the door frame to steady himself. It is he who breaks the news to Tony and as the shuddering young man clings to him in a way he hasn’t since he was very small he realises that he is still trusted enough to make what he had spent all these years working for happen. He spends the year he is in charge of SI during Tony’s minority ensuring that the Board knows about every single one of Tony’s indiscretions and, in turn, fosters Tony’s dislike of the stuffy committee members who sit on it. Tact is one of Maria’s traits which Tony failed to inherit, and Obadiah knows that his feelings for the Board will be made clear at each and every meeting and that none of them are men who will easily accept a wilful man-child with more than three times their intelligence as their superior._

_That works flawlessly, but still Tony isn’t isolated or dependent on him like he once was. He still doesn’t need or seek Obadiah’s approval or his aid. He won’t acknowledge that he needs him, that without him he’d be completely useless despite all Obadiah does for the company, all the things he has done for Tony over the years. Worse, he won’t even turn all of his talents to what SI wishes to sell. He fulfils the obligations in SI’s long standing military contacts sure, but the bulk of Department of Defence money is promptly sunk into medical advancements and robotics and various machines of convenience and his mother’s many charities. It’s not that these things don’t work, or don’t sell, or aren’t laudable causes, but SI is a weapons manufacturer, that’s where the bulk of their money and investors lies, and always has done so. He isn’t interested in listening to Obadiah tell him this though, the older man’s opinion not worth as much as once it was._

_For weeks Obadiah lies awake at night wondering how to force a mind as strong and intelligent as Tony Stark’s to regress to the age he needs it, to be pliant enough to be of some use to him without shattering it utterly and destroying the creative spark he needs. Obadiah is still important in Tony’s life, the only constant he has apart from the old family butler and Captain Rhodes’ boy who he’s known for years. In theory it should be easy to show Tony that, when he cannot rely on himself, it is Obadiah that he needs. The other crucial aspect any plan needs to have, he thinks, is it needs to separate him from those damn robots of his which seem to give him all the companionship he needs and keep him from seeking approval elsewhere. At last it dawns on him that with so few people to depend on, and as arrogant and proud as he is, Tony doesn’t need to be regressed mentally, merely crippled physically, to reduce him to a dependant desperate child. With that realisation everything falls into place._

_It can’t be permanent Obadiah acknowledges, because he knows of no one else who can emulate Tony’s genius in creating, but it needs to be severe enough to render him physically helpless whilst mentally totally aware of what has happened to him and, ideally, it needs to be something the robots can be blamed for. In the privacy of his own home, away from prying eyes and with his plan finally taking form Obadiah allows himself a smile. He mustn’t break the boy, or let him realise what he is doing or everything will be lost, but with a helpless Tony Stark about to be in his power he can’t help but think that perhaps those darker desires, repressed so long, can be indulged after all._

 

 

CHAPTER 1: Tony POV

 

Tony shifts restlessly as he starts to wake up. This isn’t his bed, but, ultimately, he is rather intimately acquainted with waking up in unfamiliar places and that doesn’t worry him unduly any longer. He doesn’t open his eyes though, preferring to have some idea of what he would see before he does so.

 

The sheets are scratchier than he is used to, and over starched, the air smells strongly of disinfectant and there is an insistent and rhythmic beeping noise. Shit. Not a drunken one night stand then. Accident? He turns his senses inwards, cataloguing his body. His head hurts a little and his mouth is dry. His arms feel heavy and achy but nothing worse. He levers his lids open.

 

White is his first impression and he slams his eyes shut against it before opening them more slowly and taking in the room with its impossibly boring white ceiling and walls. There is a sound next to him and it takes a surprising amount of effort to turn his head to find Obie sitting next to the bed and staring at him with undisguised relief. There is something so raw in the other man’s eyes that Tony wants to turn his face away but can’t, he’s too weak. He settles for casting his eyes down at himself instead and seeing for the first time that his hands and forearms are encased in thick plaster casts (white like everything else), the fingers wrapped and taped individually so that he has almost no movement below the elbow. Shock and fear roll over him in a wave, effectively wiping away the needlessly sappy things he had been thinking about Obie’s presence at his bedside. “What happened?” he demands, voice high and cracking with a terror that might have shamed him if it had been anything other than his hands which looked so damaged.

 

There is a sudden pressure on his shoulder and he flinches unthinkingly, struggling to sit up, but it is just Obie’s steadying hand. “It’s fine,” the other man says, voice calm and soothing, but an order all the same. Despite himself, Tony settles and Obie flashes him a tired smile before fiddling with the controls to set the bed to allow Tony into a sitting position without using any of his own muscles. His control over the bed is less than perfect, and Tony itches to take the small device from him and do it himself, but with his hands bundled like they are, he would have even less control, so he grits his teeth and allows Obie to do it in jerks and starts.

 

“My hands-” he starts, and god! Is he crying? He tries, with little success, to clamp down on the tears that Howard would never have tolerated. 

 

The warm soothing weight of Obie’s hand is back on his shoulder, rubbing soothingly circles, and Obie does him the courtesy of pretending not to see his tears as he interrupts his panic to hastily explain, “You had an accident in the workshop Tony, with the prototype launcher. I can explain your injuries to you, or you can wait for the doctor, but the important thing is that you’re expected to regain full mobility.”

 

Tony releases a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. “What happened?” he asks again, but he is calmer now, his voice his usual tone instead of the frantic childish terror of earlier.

 

The launcher collapsed off of its blocks when that robot of yours rolled into it. You were under it doing some last minute adjustments and you must have seen it falling just in time, you caught the weight on your arms. You’re lucky you did too. It broke both your wrists, a couple of bones in your hands and seven fingers; it would have crushed your skull. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, a spark from the metal scraping along the floor set your sleeve on fire.” Obie has to turn away, voice distorted with emotion as he adds, “I’m just so grateful I was there...I dread to think...but the doctors say you should be fine. The bones need to set and the burns need to heal but there’s no nerve damage, nothing time won’t fix.” He looks up again and fixes a glare on Tony’s stunned face, “And for once, you are going to obey the doctors young man. You will not move your arms or hands at all. If those bones shift while healing they might cause more problems.”

 

Tony can only nod, wide eyed, stunned by the catalogue of injuries and somewhat hopelessly moved by the badly masked fear and sheen of tears in Obie’s eyes. He’s seen this before but never directed at him, this strict _I’m only doing this because I care for you_ attitude is new, probably because Obie’s never seen him with anything worse than a hangover or cold or the occasional minor burn or tiny cut from his work since the car accident, and before then, Obie probably thought he’d already received these lectures at home and could afford to be the indulgent uncle. Honestly, Tony wants nothing more than lay his head on Obie’s shoulder and just cry because he’s so grateful that Obie cares, but he’s twenty five, and supposedly, in name at least, Obie’s boss so he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely instead, eyes tracking Obie as the older man moved to get the cup of water from the nightstand for him. “Yeah, I will, or won’t, you know what I mean. I promise. I’m sorry.”

 

Obie favours him with a small smile He knows how rarely Tony Stark apologised for anything but he means this. After all, Obie had been insisting he restrict DUM-E and Butterfinger’s workshop access for months, convinced they were hazards, that their sensors weren’t developed enough. Tony had brushed him off, he loves his robots even if the dark little voice at the back of his mind insists on reminding him that he’s so pathetic he has to build friends for himself, and he hates being ordered around. Howard was always doing that, always issuing orders in a tone that never failed to remind Tony that his dad had been in the war, even if he’d never actually been formal military. It might well be an SI building, but he _owned_ SI and this lab is supposed to be his, he’d told Obie, he’d run it the way he saw fit and he didn’t want a human lab assistant in his way, trying to make small talk, unable to follow his random jumps of thought. Obie hadn’t pushed him. Even now, he hasn’t uttered a single word about how he’d warned Tony this was coming months ago. Instead, he perches on the edge of the bed and holds the glass in front of Tony’s mouth. He’s not, quite, near enough and Tony has to chase the straw with his lips and tongue, an action which brings a blush to his cheeks, but he doesn’t ask Obie to move it closer. The man already looks horribly uncomfortable and though Obie’s always been there for him, a permanent presence in the way of mountains in the landscape of Tony’s life, he’s never really been a parental figure despite Tony’s desperate need of one, mostly because even if his gruff but obvious affection is preferable to Howard’s ambivalent disdain, he’d be useless in the role of father. Obie has always been kind to Tony, but he’s not a natural caregiver.

 

He pulls the glass away before Tony is quite finished. Tony keeps the protesting noise behind his teeth. Obie’s being so kind, too kind, and it’s selfish at best, pathetic at worst, because he lived on his own at MIT years ago, but he doesn’t want him to realise just how clingy and demanding Tony is and leave.

_Obadiah Interlude #1_

_The hardest part, telling Tony what had happened, is over. There had always been risk with that, risk that he would remember something different, risk that Obadiah would give himself away with some small act or expression but no, it had been easy. Almost too easy, it had been all he could do to suppress his delighted laughter, but Obadiah does not believe that Tony knows more than he had acknowledged. The boy doesn’t have the patience or discipline to have held his tongue if he did._

_All Obadiah has to do now is wait out the healing process and be the one there who Tony needs, make him grateful for his help and friendship, make him desperate for it, show him that his helplessness can only be mitigated at Obadiah’s discretion. The darkness, the desire to do harm to Tony, is back in his chest, roaring louder than ever and there is a part of him, a large part, that wants to put Howard’s boy on his knees and see him plead for mercy, see him acknowledge Obadiah as the powerful force Howard always refused to see him as. That part of him has to be quelled because it is impractical and will serve no purpose beyond Obadiah’s instant gratification. It will be much sweeter to see the boy become Obadiah’s puppet, thoughtlessly giving his company in all but name to a man his father had liked well enough but had never respected._

_Much as he might want to see Tony’s arrogant face twisted with pain and stopping his agonised screaming only long enough to beg for mercy, it can’t be done, (at least not yet, perhaps when he has had from Tony all the innovation the boy can give) but that doesn’t mean he can’t indulge his darker side just a little. It was after all sweet to see him bite down against the instinctive sarcasm, a gift from his father he could have done without, when Obadiah was raising the bed in jerks and starts in an attempt to jar his arms painfully enough to gain him a reaction. And it darkens his eyes and makes something too dark to be lust pool in his stomach to remember Tony forced to show himself desperate for the water Obadiah had held for him if he wanted a drink. That Obadiah fully intends to repeat._

_It’s mixing business with pleasure because to render someone helpless and dependent is one of the best ways to create the emotions he needs Tony to feel if he is gain anything permanent from this little exercise, but who could resist the angry fire banked down to mere irritation by humiliation and forced gratitude in Tony’s too expressive eyes? But he wants it, more than that, he needs it. Perhaps he’ll take Tony for a meal when he’s feeling better._

 

 

CHAPTER 2: Tony POV 

 

Tony’s shit at keeping his promises, like really, really shit. If you took a nationwide poll in being bad at keeping promises he would probably come top. His best friend has known him for years, Howard had known his grandfather in the war and Rhodey and he had practically grown up together. He was the closest Tony had to a sibling or a cousin, and he’s always saying he only keeps talking to Tony in the hope of Tony one day honouring his various promises to stop getting him impossibly drunk at the most inappropriate times or calling him in the middle of the night when he is bored or to follow his agreement to build Rhodey something which would make him the most awesome guy in his barracks. Tony’s reasonably sure he is joking, but he doesn’t want to push it. Rhodey’s the only person that has been his friend this long, and they’re not family after all, he doesn’t have to, and yet he does, even though Tony really hasn’t done any of the things he’s promised over the years. So yeah, keeping promises, not his strong suit, but his promise to Obie to do as the doctors have said and not move his arms about too much, he tries his best to stick to it. 

 

For the first couple of days it’s easy. He’s stuck in the hospital, and without his hands he can’t do anything: can’t sketch out schematics for his latest robots or algorithms for the next generation AI he’s got plans for, can’t read, can’t even change the channel on the television above his bed playing shitty talk shows and re-runs of old sitcoms. He is Tony Stark however, he’s ridiculously hot and stupidly wealthy and, with minimal difficulty, he manages to convince one of the nurses to come in and sit with him and talk to him and just keep him company until it’s visiting hours and Obie or Rhodey can drop by. He can’t do any real design work, and it wouldn’t do him any good anyway since he can’t move his fingers, but he has plans to create a computer that’s mobile, that he could hold on his knees and work on anywhere.

 

Eventually though they decide he doesn’t need to be under observation anymore and discharge him. Tony, naturally, is delighted. He’s pretty sure if he had to stay in that room another day he would actually go crazy, or, as Rhodey would say, crazier. Then it comes to changing out of the hospital gown he’s dressed in and getting into the clothes Obie had brought him the night before in preparation. Obie knows him better than he would have given the man credit. He’s brought him jeans, a tattered but clean Led Zeppelin shirt, his favourite wine coloured button up and the clean, paparazzi safe version of his grease stained sneakers. They are as close to his comfort clothes as he has the option of wearing, knowing that the outside of the hospital is likely mobbed with reporters poised with questions about his accident and recovery and plans for unveiling the launcher. Tony wants to cry when he realises he can’t get into any of them. He really doesn’t want to call the nurse back; not that he’s adverse to a pretty nurse seeing him dishabille, but he doesn’t want her dressing him like an infant. He gnaws his lip and curses his helplessness. After a long moment he picks up the t-shirt, holding it awkwardly between his plaster casted wrists. With some wriggling he manages to get it on. It takes an embarrassingly long time, but it’s better than nothing. He’s just contemplating the jeans and wondering how best to go about getting them on when there’s a light rap on the wall on the far side of the curtain.

 

“Tony?” says Obie’s voice, “Tony, are you ready? I don’t have long, I have a meeting but I thought you might want to see a familiar face before dealing with the piranhas outside.”

 

Tony lets out an undignified squeak of surprise and promptly loses his grip on the jeans he’d been trying to roll the way he’d seen girls do with stockings in order to get his leg completely in without having to tug the material too much. It falls in a puddle on the floor and he scowls at it. “Ok, thanks. Be right there.”

 

It takes time to scoop the jeans up off the floor, none of his fingers really move due to the tape and bandages and flares of pain each motion causes and it’s hard to get a grip. This time though the rolling goes quicker because he now knows what he’s trying to do. He can tell from the sounds of Obie drumming on the wall that he’s getting impatient and he struggles to move faster. Obie’s always been a workaholic, just like Howard was, doubtless he has meetings and stockholders to get back to and he’s still here, making time for Tony in a way his family never had. “Tony,” there’s a bite of impatience in the voice now. “Tony are you nearly done? I’m going to be late.”

 

Tony almost loses his balance as he gets both feet into the rolled legs of his jeans but saves himself. “I’m fine,” he says, trying for casual, “Just go. Leave me the car, or send another one. I can manage a few reporters Obie. I’m fine.”

 

“Don’t be difficult Tony. Just hurry up.”

 

He gets the jeans pulled up to his waist before realising which jeans they are. They’re the ones he bought in Florida on vacation with Rhodey last year. Tony had been under the impression that the slightly too big fit would hang low on his slender hipbones and bring girls flooding in. The girls had still flooded in, Tony didn’t need help from a pair of second rate jeans, but the jeans had been far too loose. They’d been in danger of falling off all the damn time. They needed a belt. His eyes drop back to the stack of clothing on visitors chair and sure enough there is one, brown and coiled on top of his socks and sneakers. Just like that, the fight goes out of him, he’s covered and that’s apparently the best he can hope for. Without his fingers there’s no way he can manage the rest, socks, buttons, belt, laces are beyond him in his current state. He stares fixedly at the far wall and swallows his pride. At least it’s Obie and not the hot nurse. “Hey Obie?”

 

“What is it Tony?”

 

“Can you...I need a hand in here for a sec.”

 

Obie’s face peers around the curtain. He’s scowling, and Tony almost can’t resist the automatic flinch back. He swallows the blush and the uncharacteristic apology but his eyes drop of their own accord so he misses the brief look that passes over Obie’s face. He’s nonetheless soothed by the softened voice as he says, “Oh I’m sorry Tony, I didn’t think. Let me...” he steps forward, and his hands are just as hesitant and awkward as Tony feels as they button him into his jeans and put on his belt. “Sit on the bed. I’ll sort out your shoes and socks.”

 

It’s strange to have Obie crouched in front of him, dressing him, but not entirely unpleasant. He feels cared for in a way he hasn’t since he was very small. Obie glances up at him with a sardonic expression. “I haven’t done this since you were tiny. If I remember...your feet used to be ticklish.”

 

“No, don’t-” Tony gasps and lets out an embarrassing giggle (really, it’s a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh, a giggle, the sort a prepubescent girl might let out).

 

Obie smiles himself and finishes putting on his right shoe. “What do you say I blow off my meeting and we go for lunch to celebrate you getting out of here?”

 

“It’s hospital Obie, not prison,” Tony quips back, slightly disconcerted. No one has ever implied that he was worth ditching work for and he really just wants to go home. A flash of offended hurt crosses Obie’s face and Tony finds himself shifting guiltily on the bed and hastily adding, “But hey, who am I to turn down a date with a handsome older man.”

 

If anything that just makes Obie tense further. He draws back abruptly, leaving Tony with one shoe on and undone and the other foot only half covered. “That’s not appropriate Tony.”

 

The open pit of guilt in his stomach yawns wider. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” his voice trails off and he looks at Obie, hopeful that the man will infer his meaning and sincerity. Obie does not move, still tense and hurt and offended and much as Tony might like to mask his discomfort with flippancy and leave and hide out with his robots until this whole situation is forgotten and they can just act normally again, that really isn’t an option right now. He flexes his ruined fingers as much as he can. It isn’t a lot; it’s barely a flex, more a twitch, like the legs of a dead spider. “I’m sorry,” he says again, voice soft and low, “I didn’t mean it Obie. I was kidding. I’d love to go for lunch with you.” Obie nods and relaxes fractionally but doesn’t move, “Will you finish helping me with my shoes? Please?” he says after another a second, a request he despises having to make as it only underscores his helplessness, but the only way he knows how to show Obie that that isn’t how he thinks of him, that he trusts him.

 

Still silent, Obie leans forward once again and jerks the rest of the sock up his mostly uncovered foot. He’s gentle, despite the rough skin of his hands and the quick jerky movement, but the warmth has gone from the action now, the previous care leeched out. It’s nothing more than an impersonal touch, Obie making an obvious concerted effort not to touch Tony’s bare skin. “Come on Obie,” Tony whines, a wheedling tone he hasn’t adopted since...probably the last time someone needed to put his socks on for him, “don’t. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Please just...” touch me, love me. The words burn on his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to say them without worsening this already horrible situation so he engages the brain to mouth filter Rhodey has told him hundreds of times that he doesn’t have and bites them back.

 

Obie pauses in the tying of his shoe lace. His cheeks have a very faint tinge of pink, the only sign of his discomfort as he says in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, “You know I would never...could never...you’re the closest I’m ever likely to have to a son Tony and with Howard gone you’re...It’s my responsibility to look after you.”

 

There are many things Tony might have usually said to that. That he doesn’t need looking after, he’s an adult now, that Howard hadn’t exactly felt that responsibility keenly and it’s unreasonable to expect Obie to inherit a responsibility which he is the only one believes exists, that he knows he’s not Obie’s son and never will be and doesn’t expect anything from him. Instead, he blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes, wondering furiously which of the drugs he’s on have that side effect because he’s certainly not crying, he’s just _not_. “Thank you,” he says, his own face heating at the humiliating crack in his voice the struggle to keep the wetness in his eyes from overflowing into real tears causes, “You don’t have to feel...And I know you wouldn’t...”

 

Obie finishes with his laces, applying himself to the task and sparing Tony from being stared at while he falls apart. When he’s finished at last he stands, wincing slightly as his knee cracks, and reaches out to pat Tony on the shoulder. “Alright Tony, I know. I shouldn’t have over-reacted, I just didn’t want you to think-”

 

“I don’t, I don’t, I promise,” Tony interrupts, voice slightly frantic, and no matter how he tries he can’t help the tear that tumbles over his lid to roll down his cheek. 

 

Unthinkingly he lifts an arm to wipe it away with his sleeve, “Hey, hey,” says Obie gently, pushing the arm back down, “No moving your arms about too much remember. You need to rest them.” He regards Tony for a second, and Tony can’t keep his face from flaming under the scrutiny of his obvious and exposed weakness. Then he lifts his own hand and carefully wipes the tear off Tony’s face with his thumb. “So where do you want to eat?” he asks, and Tony adores him for not asking or making a big deal about it. Maybe he’s pretending it’s a side effect of the painkillers just as hard as Tony is. 

 

That thought doesn’t stop him from sagging slightly against Obie’s solid warmth when the older man pulls him up. “Whatever you want,” he answers, more docile than he’s been in years.

 

Obie fixes him with the wide boyish smile he usually reserves for the best business deals, “Well this is a celebration. I’ll call Wolfgang’s get us a reservation.”

 

Tony nods, and let’s Obie steer him from the room and to the car.

 

_Obadiah Interlude #2_

_It’s a fine line to tread. Obadiah has been working his way into the hearts and minds of the Stark family for decades, but it is easy to get someone to trust you when all you must do is play to your strengths. Obadiah has been a juggernaut in the boardroom since he was an intern. It is easy to be indispensible when they rely on you for you organisational input, but know you need them to make the magic happen. Geniuses are always content to rely on someone they don’t believe to be a threat. This...this is significantly more difficult. If he gives Tony a reason to believe he is doing this on purpose, Tony will amputate him from his life with surgical precision, as one would a gangrenous limb. He is accustomed to fending for himself, accustomed to believing that he must do so, he will remove anyone or anything he perceives as an enemy with no hesitation. If the Rhodes boy suspects he is doing it on purpose he will be lucky to escape in as good condition as Tony is now. He is fiercely and devotedly protective of Tony._

_But this has been in the planning for a long time. Obadiah realises he must tread softly, start small. Rome after all, was not built in a day. As Tony forgets to rely on himself, as he becomes more dependent on him, he will be able to make his actions more overt. Until then however..._

_It does not take him long to identify the clothes as Tony’s first major hurdle, especially once he realises the boy has taken a fancy to the young nurse who spends the most time entertaining him. He doesn’t know this slightly older Tony as well as he would like, but he knew Howard, and he sees much of his father in Tony’s dark eyes. Howard would not want a woman he desired to have to treat him like a child. He leaks Tony’s release date to the press himself, ensuring they will be waiting for him and cancels all his engagements for that afternoon. Then he brings Tony what he knows will appear at first glance to be comfort clothing, but makes sure it all has belts, buckles, zippers that Tony will be unable to do unaided. Then he waits._

_It takes Tony longer than he had thought it would to break and ask for help and he is grudgingly impressed with just how much he has managed, hampered as he is. He dresses the man with the intimate and lavish care of a mother and it is not hard to be offended when Tony responds to his offer with a flirtation born he knows of habit not actual desire. He should be totally unsexualised to Tony. Even for him, even ruled as he is by his baser, darker desires to see Tony possessed utterly, to see him_ his _, is not driven by mere lust. Lust is too paltry for what he feels, and Obadiah himself has always preferred women anyway. But from Tony’s perspective, and more importantly from the perspectives of outsiders, to sexualise the care and dependency he is about to subject Tony to is to make it well, creepy, in a way that will not go unnoticed for long._

_The chastisement however is even more effective than he had anticipated. Obadiah is almost – almost – shocked at what Howard and Maria had done to the boy if this is how desperate he is not to offend someone giving him parental attention. He almost refuses the apology,, but it is too soon for that. Tony must believe in his generosity and benevolence first. He still has to take a moment just to admire the picture he makes, one of pitiful desolation, as a tear rolls slowly down his cheek before shaking himself and sympathising (obliquely, the Stark men have never appreciated pity). With Tony so uncertain and so very,_ pitifully _, desperate for forgiveness it is easy to get him to agree to the restaurant Obadiah had arranged with a reporter that morning._

 

 

CHAPTER 3: Tony POV

 

Later, Tony will blame himself for being such a monumental fuck up that he insists on pushing away the only person who has ever cared for him, who has ever wanted to be around him when he’s not inventing anything useful or doing anything brilliant or offering something they want; who wants to be around him when he’s broken and useless. At the time, the rushing wave of humiliation drowns out the little voice pointing out that he’s being an unreasonable, ungrateful brat. His only defence is that he’d never wanted to go for lunch in the first place, but he’d been so flattered at the offer, and so afraid of hurting Obie, and so desperate to make up for his earlier insult, that he had agreed without realising what it would mean.

 

The restaurant is one of Tony’s favourites and within moments of arriving, the head waiter himself has a bottle of Tony’s favourite red on the table and a glass in front of each of them. It’s only then that Tony realises just how bad an idea this was.  He can’t even lift the glass. Obie must be in a good mood though because, in the overly loud tones which Tony spent his childhood in trouble for using, and has delighted in using ever since he was too old to be punished for it, orders the waiter to bring him a straw. Tony flushes darkly. He doesn’t want to drink his wine through a straw. He tries to order a coke instead, that’ll look much more natural and won’t draw attention to him in the same way, but Obie is still talking, ordering two T-bones with sides of everything.

 

The waiter scurries off to do his bidding and Tony turns a petulant glare on Obie. “How do you think I can eat a T-bone steak with these?” he flops his useless arms in an ungainly way.

 

There is a brief pause while Obie obviously realises that Tony has a point. Then he waves a hand. Tony watches the movement with undeniable jealousy in his eyes. It’s a weird feeling, being jealous. Tony is very rarely jealous, he’s the man who has everything – _that’s what he tells himself, repeats until he half believes it_ – but it’s been three days and he misses his hands. “I can cut your steak for you.” That solves about half the problem and Obie clearly realises it because he doesn’t meet Tony’s narrow eyed stare, though other than that he hardly reacts, like this isn’t a big deal, and perhaps to him it isn’t, he probably remembers Tony at the age when he was spoon fed, he may even have done it once or twice, but the idea of being fed here, in a restaurant where anyone can see...it’s more than Tony can bare. 

 

He makes a jerky movement, intending to push his wine away, but his arm is bulky and unwieldy in the cast and he ends up knocking the glass over. A burgundy stain spreads over the white table cloth. “I want to go home,” he says in a low voice, totally unlike his usual tone.

 

Obie doesn’t hear him. He waves the waiter forward to clear up Tony’s mess and gets out of his own seat. “It’s OK Tony,” he soothes, but his voice carries, people are turning to look now, “Accidents happen, don’t worry.” He comes to stand mostly behind Tony, but Tony doesn’t turn to look at him, he’s glaring at the table which is rapidly being stripped of the sopping cloth by professional hands. He’s sulking, he knows he is, but he thinks he’s justified right now. “The hospital gave me these for you, they’ll help you keep still and not break things or hurt yourself,” he pulls out two foam loops, obviously intended as quick slings.

 

Tony balks, “No!” he says, raising his own voice in a sharp refusal. He can’t put those on, he can’t. With both arms corseted in them it’ll be like being trapped in a straitjacket. He can’t imagine anything worse. “No Obie!” He wants the second refusal to be an unequivocal statement, a command to back the other man down. It sounds like the petulant whine of a child refusing to take his medicine.

 

“Now Tony,” Obie says, sternly, “they’ll help.” 

 

His tone makes Tony feel even more like a child, about to be chided for disobedience, for making a scene in public. He lowers his voice and his eyes, staring at his knees as he hisses in a whisper that’s too close to tears, “Obie please no. It’ll feel like I’m tied up.”

 

Obie does not look impressed with his argument. “I believe those pictures published last week proved you enjoyed that?” he says archly.

 

“Well I think we’ve established you aren’t going to do it the way I like it,” Tony snips back. He wants to get up and walk out, were Obie anyone else he would, but no one has been this kind to him, ever, and he knows Obie means well, even if every instinct is screaming at him to flee.

 

Something crosses across Obie’s face, and then he says in a gentle voice, “Tony I know this is difficult, but I just want you to get well. And I’m sure you’d prefer not to break every object you go to pick up over the next weeks. Please let me put the slings on. They’ll help.”

 

And the worst of it is, he’s right. Tony can’t answer. He stares at his knees in silence for another moment then gives a short jerky nod and allows Obie to slip the two loops first over his neck then place his arms in them, immobilising them against his abdomen.

 

It isn’t long before their plates of steak arrive. Obie has moved his chair over closer to Tony’s and is carrying on a one sided conversation, apparently unbothered that Tony’s additions to the conversation are mostly grunts and jerky nods. He hasn’t been this uncommunicative since he was a teenager. Obie cuts everything on Tony’s plate into bite sized pieces and feeds them to Tony. Neither of them is great at the unfamiliar action. Obie keeps holding the fork too far away, forcing Tony to chases the item of food with his lips and teeth, straining after it like a puppy with a treat held just above its nose, or too close, wiping streaks of sauce and grease on Tony’s cheeks and chin. He’s sure he must be so flushed with humiliation that the steak would sizzle anew if pushed against his cheek, but Obie doesn’t comment. After eating less than half Tony slows down. He can’t claim to be full already, Obie knows him too well and will never accept it and Tony’s face is now steak stained so he really doesn’t want to have another attention drawing argument, but he encourages Obie to turn to his own meal and contents himself with aiming a scowl that could melt titanium at him.

 

He’s so tense he’s vibrating in his seat, ears and cheeks flaming at every glance from the other patrons of the restaurant, sure every giggle and whispered comment is aimed at him. Tony hasn’t been this self-conscious in years, if ever, but right now he feels exposed and vulnerable. Every bite Obie does offer him is torture, he can feel a scream bubbling in his throat, pushing against the teeth he’s clenching so tightly together he can hear them squeaking and grinding, at Obie’s obliviousness. Every fibre of his being, his attention, is focussed on Obie’s plate, watching each mouthful disappear. When Obie is finished he can come up with some excuse to leave, he keeps reminding himself. He doesn’t see the slight wink Obie tips at the door, but looks up at it in horrified consternation as half a dozen reporters push their way in. He tries to raise an arm to wipe his face, but it’s jerked back down by the sling that he can’t remove because his other arm is in the exact same constraints. A waiter tries to head them off at the door and Tony turns a frantic glare on Obie...who fails to see it because he’s now waving at the waiter, “Let them through. Mr Stark isn’t well enough for a press conference, but he can give a statement, some idea of when he’ll be back to work.” He’s smiling like Santa Claus, like he’s doing Tony a huge favour by not making him do a press conference. Tony manages a tense smile and wishes he hadn’t complained about Press Conferences so vehemently. He’s always been told his mouth will get him into trouble and now it has.

 

The reporter gives an ingratiating smirk of his own and takes the empty seat Obie gestures him into. “How’re you feeling Mr. Stark?” the reporter asks with such obviously faux concern Tony wonders how he gets anyone to talk to him.

 

Tony is about to explain to him what a stupid question that is, and what he thinks of the man himself. Obie, very probably, knows this and attempts to forestall the obvious PR catastrophe by offering Tony another forkful of his meal. “I’m fine,” he says tightly. 

 

“It’s your favourite Tony,” Obie says, in a deceptively light voice that Tony knows means _keep your temper/now is not the time for one of your displays/don’t embarrass me in public and put me on CNN when I’m supposed to be somewhere else and am instead here with you_. 

 

There’s a little voice in Tony’s head, telling him Obie is trying to help, that little voice knows he should take the bite of potato from the offered fork, but it’s drowned out by the dull roar of fury and humiliation swiftly engulfing him. He stands up so quickly his chair falls backwards, drawing every eye in the place and wobbles slightly, off balance with the weird position of his arms. He doesn’t fall, a fact for which he’s grateful, and he’s about to turn on his heel and leave when the reporter smirks more widely, amused by the rare display of embarrassment from Tony Stark of all people. Tony loses it. He’s not sure what he’s shouting, just that it’s a lengthy diatribe on the reporter’s ancestry and personal habits, twice Obie tries to interrupt him and Tony hears his own voice shriek, “I hate you! How could you embarrass me like this?”

 

Finally, he does what he’s wanted to do virtually since he arrived and turns and leaves the restaurant, an audience of bewildered patrons, waiters and reporters staring at him as he does. Obie doesn’t follow.

 

_Obadiah Interlude #3_

_The restaurant is both a success and a failure. Obadiah had not anticipated getting Tony into the slings at all, had in fact merely suggested them to judge where the weak spots were in how he resisted. It is sheer whimsy which prompts him to play the_ this-is-for-your-own-good _card and he is frankly amazed when it gets him to fold. Who knew Tony Stark’s weakness was having people actually care about him? He wonders again exactly what Howard had done to the boy, and if the robots he loves building and the AI he is constantly talking about and designing, are more than just an exercise in complex circuitry and learning systems.  For an instant, a very brief instant, he feels something akin to pity that Tony is about to have that very weakness exploited against him. It doesn’t stop him._

_He orders Tony’s favourite and spends half an hour indulging himself in making the meal as awkward as possible for Tony with his supposedly inept spoon-feeding ability. He loves watching Tony trying to anticipate where he will put the fork next, enjoying pulling the rug out from under him by promptly moving it. Tony is delightful like this, pathetically attention starved, and it occurs to wonder if Howard did this on purpose just because he is so lovely this way. Probably not he has to acknowledge, but it’s a delightful thought that Howard would have gift wrapped his son so nicely and delivered him to Obadiah on a plate by denying him the only thing the billionaire’s son had ever craved and then driving off that icy Swiss road. It gives him a surge of vindictive pleasure to know he is torturing Howard’s memory instead of just Tony._

_Then the reporter arrives. He’s late. Obadiah had been expecting him fifteen minutes ago, had been deliberately drawing out his meal and determinedly not acknowledging Tony’s staring eyes._

_The press, universally, both love and hate Tony. He sells papers, and whatever he is doing is always the most interesting thing they will see, write about or photograph in the week if not the month, but he is rude to them, difficult. He distains their profession, always likening them to sharks or carrion feeders, not always, indeed rarely, waiting until he is out of their hearing before he does so. He is too aware that he is so much more intelligent than them that it is like likening a rat to the scientist experimenting on him. Obadiah knows it’s half the reason why the paparazzi are so obsessed with his scandals. Sure, it’s interesting and it sells, but it’s also intended to hurt and shame Tony, to revenge them. Tony however is never ashamed by his drunken antics or sex scandals no matter how outrageous. This though, this helplessness, this feeling of being tied and displayed...this is different and Obadiah knows it. Honestly, he should get an Oscar for his performance of ignorant obliviousness._

_Unfortunately, it seems that he has pushed Tony too far. His food stained face will still be front page news tomorrow, the reporter who Obadiah had (discreetly, through an anonymous source) invited is one who holds him in no higher regard than the Starks. If Obadiah asks him not to, he will surely print that Tony was being hand fed as well. None of that stops the fact that Tony has just stormed out after screaming at him that he has betrayed him, humiliated him intentionally, that he’s an asshole and a dick and a manipulative son of a bitch intent on nothing but Tony’s destruction. Every word is true, it amuses Obadiah somewhat that he sounds like a crazy man as he says it. But that is a cold comfort, Tony's seeming instability will not change what he has obviously discovered._

_He spends his time at the office or moping around his own house like a whipped dog, sure he has ruined everything for a few moments of gratification. Several times he considers heading to Tony’s penthouse and begging his forgiveness. It sours something in his stomach to think of humbling himself to yet another Stark, but he doesn’t want to lose what he does have simply because it will never be more, but he doesn’t. He knows that with Tony in the condition he is in, Jarvis will stay close to home. The butler has never liked him, always seemingly able to see right through Obadiah’s facade. The days pass though and there is no word from Tony either. No threat of lawyers or dismissal, no awkward questions about things which only need the slightest scrutiny to become clear._

_A week passes, and then, one evening, Obadiah has an unexpected visitor. The Rhodes boy. They don’t know one another well and the boy stands awkwardly in Obadiah’s hallway in his full uniform, what looks like an unfamiliar blush staining his dark cheeks. He tells Obadiah that Tony knows he acted unforgivably at the restaurant, that he’s sorry, that he’ll never say but he misses Obadiah desperately. He asks if Obadiah won’t please forgive him. For the first time in a week Obadiah breathes easier. It all meant nothing. Every remark so accurate, and so well earned, and it had just been Tony having one of his patented tantrums. He probably doesn’t even know what he said. It amuses him too that this boy, so determinedly, unshakably loyal, has just betrayed Tony in a worse way than he can likely even conceive of. He nods his head, says he acknowledges Tony’s feelings and thanks Rhodes for coming to see him (that part he means) but that Tony has hurt him deeply. Of course he’ll forgive him, but he just can’t see him right now._

_Rhodes smiles with genuine, though slightly guilty, amusement. “I know how that feels. Tony is...difficult and when he’s sick or out of commission...” He pauses for breath, “in some ways I’m glad I’m off on exercise,” he acknowledges, but then his gaze sharpens and the smile falls off his face. He looks like the man he is instead of the boy Obadiah only half remembers, “But he needs someone and right now it has to be you. He needs you to forgive him, even if all you do is drop him a note telling him you’re fine, just busy.”_

_“If it means so much to him,” Obadiah finds himself asking, needing as much insight as possible, “why doesn’t he come to me?”_

_Rhodes sighs, hesitates, and then says, “Because he’s terrified of hearing you reject him outright. Right now he can pretend you’re just not available. If he calls you and you tell him you’re not coming...”_

_Obadiah nods, promises he will think on it and ushers the boy out. He doesn’t need to think. He knows he will do exactly as Rhodes has suggested, but he can’t help but let Tony sweat for a few more days first. He has a plan, but he needs some supplies._

  

 

CHAPTER 4: Tony POV

 

Tony spends the two weeks alternating between hiding and sulking and refusing to leave his penthouse. For the first few days Rhodey visits daily, turning dark, soulful eyes on Tony every time the incident is mentioned but thankfully not drawing attention to it. He has a military exercise that he can’t get out of coming up though, and once he leaves on that, Tony’s only company is Jarvis. He’s been the family butler since before Tony was even born and has seen Tony through both the best, and the worst, of times. Too often in Tony’s childhood, it was Jarvis who was there to play parental supporter, his parents busy, abroad or plain disinterested more often than not. He’s so unobtrusive with his offered help, a skill, Tony likes to joke, that he learnt at butler school, and he’s known Tony since the days of diaper changes and spoon feeding, and Tony finds he doesn’t mind his help so much. It helps that he never has to ask for it, Jarvis seeming to know what he wants and needs before he does. Tony doesn’t know what he’ll do without his quiet competence and gentle snark when he retires next month. In a maudlin fit, brought on by painkillers and boredom, he finds himself tearfully promising to name his first proper artificial intelligence after the man, explaining that he’s just practicing with the robots, that he’ll get it right soon.

 

Jarvis carefully steers him to his bed, undressing him and wiping a cloth over his face, before checking the bandages and the circulation in his fingers with all the care of a devoted nurse and says dryly, “You need someone to look after you. And a ground-breaking machine named in my honour will probably make me the most famous butler in history.”

 

Tony gives a watery chuckle and lies back, closing his eyes. “Night J.”

 

“Goodnight sir,” the man replies softly, and Tony must be imagining the gentle hand that passes over his hair because Jarvis is too professional to give so intimate a touch. He pretends the gentle caress is real though, clings to the warmth and familiarity and falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

 

The pain and inactivity makes him cranky and impossible to deal with, but Jarvis is endlessly patient. He understands without being told that Tony doesn’t want to see anyone, or be seen in public, like this, and doesn’t pressure him about it, looking after Tony’s pride as much as the rest of him. He manages to find activities Tony can do, rearranging one of the spare bedrooms into a recording studio so he can verbalise his ideas, even if he can’t work on them. Tony is forcefully reminded of long ago art projects for a lonely little boy on wet afternoons when mother had taken the driver and he was confined to the house. 

 

He manages to time meal times to when Tony is busy doing something, and Tony finds that with something else to focus his attention on he doesn’t mind being spoon fed half so much. Besides, Jarvis is significantly better than Obie at this, his experience in feeding Tony during babyhood showing through, and the fork always manages to be exactly where Tony’s mouth is, allowing him to eat with the maximum dignity possible with both of his arms still completely useless. And he tells Tony stories, a pass time Tony finds significantly less patronising than he thought he would because Jarvis is so interesting. 

 

Still though, he longs for the company of other people, unused to being cooped up like this. He misses Rhodey and moans continuously to Jarvis, and the robots, about the man’s absence. Less mentioned, but no less felt, is the insidious fact that he misses Obie too, and he knows he was in the wrong, but he fears making the first move, fears the inevitable rejection after his behaviour. Right now, it is easy to pretend Obie is simply on yet another business trip, if he has to actually hear the man say that he no longer wants to see him...

 

The isolation and guilt make him significantly less resistant than he might normally be to the terse note Obie sends him telling him that too many of his Board of Directors are concerned about the loss of productivity due to his injury and to ask if he would he mind coming in to settle them. Tony hates meeting with the Board, pompous, sycophantic assholes to a man, but Obie can’t be too pissed at him if he’s requesting his presence. He would be perfectly capable of settling the Board himself (and doing so more efficiently than Tony is likely to manage, he can admit that to himself if no one else) or to simply have his revenge by taking the opportunity to have him ousted, the Board hate him anyway. For a change, he dresses to impress instead of to deliberately piss the Board off. It takes Jarvis time to wrangle him into the suit but between them they manage and Tony takes the car to the Stark Industries complex on the outskirts of the city. Obie is waiting for him outside, leaning against his own car, more non-descript than Tony’s. Tony moves hesitantly towards him. He feels more tongue tied than he can ever remember feeling in his life. “Obie...look...uh-”

 

Obie cuts him off mid-sentence. He looks him right in the eye and says calmly, “I owe you an apology Tony. I should never have treated you like that in front of a reporter. I just didn’t...think.”

 

Tony feels his own guilt spike higher, clogging like syrup in his throat and settling into his stomach with the weight of a rock. “You don’t need to apologise, I shouldn’t have-”

 

“No,” Obie agrees, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face, the benevolent uncle twinkle in his eyes, “you shouldn’t have. But I wronged you first. Your response was understandable. The thing is Tony,” he makes an embarrassed sound and runs a hand over his face, “I too often think of you as a child because it seems just five minutes ago you were one. But you’re a man now and I need to treat you as such.”

 

Honestly, that makes the guilt worse, but it warms Tony in some deep indefinable place too. It’s good to know that Obie thinks of him as family in the same way that he thinks of Obie. He smiles, and this time it’s a real one, “Not going to try the old man card on me are you?”

 

“I’ll hit you with my walking stick,” Obie deadpans. He sighs and looks closely at Tony’s face. “How are you Tony? Really?”

 

“I’m...” Tony goes to shrug, but the movement is awkward, hampered. “It sucks. Jarvis set me up somewhere to record my ideas. Productivity might be down now, but just wait until I have opposable thumbs again. I have plans for a new firing mechanism that’s going to revolutionise firearms.”

 

Obie beams at him. “That’s my boy.” Then his expression takes on a concerned hue. “You look hot Tony. Are you sure you’re OK?”

 

It occurs to Tony that Obie’s right, standing here in this sun is hot. “Yeah, we should go in. I never liked the sun, all the best parties are at night anyway. Maybe I’m a vampire. Do we have time for coffee?”

 

Obie shakes his head a little at Tony’s too fast speech. “No, but I’ve got a bottle of water if you’d like?”

 

“...Yeah,” Tony agrees with only the smallest sigh.

 

Obie fishes the bottle out of his briefcase and twists off the cap. Tony steps awkwardly into him and allows Obie to hold the bottle to his lips. Obie’s gotten better at this since the restaurant and he doesn’t spill a drop. He’s content after half a bottle, but Obie frets about dehydration being a side effect of his meds and about how he won’t be able to have a drink in the boardroom and Tony rolls his eyes at the mother hen impression but drains the bottle.

 

They head up the boardroom together and Obie pulls Tony’s chair out for him with an ironic flourish. Tony drops into it and settles into the most comfortable position he can. They’re the last one’s there and, their eyes widening at the sight of the casts on Tony’s arms, the Board members begin the meeting at once. Tony listens for about half an hour, occasionally, well, more occasionally than usual, interjecting, explaining about his new recording studio and how he’s documenting his new ideas and that SI will be fine even if the next few weeks are a slump. He promises faithfully to go by R&D and at least work with them verbally and he refrains from calling R&D idiots. He should be commended. After a while though, he tunes out. They’re just rehashing the same old ground. The Board all taking it in turns to have potshots at him, and whilst normally Tony would shut them up and leave in a whirl of style and sarcasm, he feels like he owes it to Obie to sit through this one.

 

Then he becomes uncomfortably aware of a too familiar sensation. He fidgets and breathes deeply, trying to will it away, but to no avail. Leaving isn’t an option now, he’ll never make it all the way back the penthouse and Jarvis. It feels like hours before they break for lunch and by then Tony’s kidneys are on fire, they feel like someone is squeezing them through a juicer. “Obie?” he manages to say, and it sounds ragged and pleading to his own ears but he must have succeeded in his attempt to keep his voice normal because Obie barely glances at him.

 

Instead, Tony is offered a soft smile of the I’m-far-too-busy-for-you-right-now-darling kind that mother was so proficient at. “One moment Tony,” he says and continues the conversation he’s having with the only Board member who has not filed from the room.

 

“Obie,” he says again after a moment, the word sharpening slightly into what he wants to be an order and instead sounds like the petulant demand of an over indulged child.

 

The Board member tuts and gives an almost unnoticeable disapproving look Tony’s way from under his eyelashes. Tony’s eyes sweep over the man, and the ugly frown his face has twisted up into, and even through his haze of pain and desperation he takes note of him. He has always hated the Board of Directors, but this man just made the top of shit list. He might be a spoiled child, but he's still this man's boss, he should have more class, and more intelligence, that to show that opinion so obviously.

 

“Yes Tony?” Obie says, with just the hint of a sigh, all too obviously resigning himself to Tony’s behaviour and not helping the Board member's disapproval.

 

Tony feels tears he will die before he lets fall, prick his eyes. He’s a dick fair enough, but right now he isn’t being one. He isn’t being difficult and rude on purpose. He needs Obie to help him. They both turn to him properly when he fails to answer. Tony lets the mocking look on the Board member’s face solidify his hurt into anger. “Can I speak to you alone?” he asks, somehow making it a civil request instead of a scream.

 

Something passes over Obie’s face, but Tony is in too much pain to analyse it and he can’t deny that he knew his request would make Obie concerned. The man nods sharply and stands, “I’ll be back momentarily Tony,” he says, his tone no longer even the least bit patronising. He takes the Board member by the arm and all but tows him from the room, ignoring the none too subtle protests.

 

In the empty committee room, Tony lays his head against the table and shuts his eyes, focusing on his breathing, his heart rate. Normally when as tense as this he’d pace, but he doubts he can stand. The sickening, cramping sensation has spread to his lower back. He can hear Obie and the Board member (and damn it, he really probably should know the man’s name) conversing quietly in the corridor but he can’t make out the words, not that he’s trying too hard but...

 

Whatever it is that they’re discussing must be important because, despite the undeniable emotion that had been on Obie’s face, it takes him almost fifteen minutes to return to the room. Tony spends most of it debating going downstairs to ask his driver, but Happy is new and doesn’t know him that well, and it’s bad enough that he has to ask Obie for this, much less a stranger. A bright surge of anger at Obie bites through him. He knows something is wrong, where is he? Another sharp pain lances through him and just as he’s rapidly coming the conclusion that it is ask his driver for help or take the consequences, Obie re-enters the room. He sits down opposite Tony and regards him for a moment. “You’re in pain,” he says aloud after a second and there’s a hint of disapproval in his voice,

 

“You haven’t been taking the pills the doctor’s gave you.”

 

The anger instantly falls away from Tony. Obie is here, of course he’s here, and of course he’ll help once he realises that the problem is not, for a change, Tony’s disobedience. He levers himself off the table so he’s sitting somewhat straight, the movement makes him hiss through his teeth. His skin is clammy, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead in greasy strings, and his breathing is too rapid.

 

Despite it all, he lets out what is intended to be a chuckle because Obie’s words, whilst not an unreasonable assumption are so very very far from the truth. Like this he is too helpless to follow his own contrary inclinations and as though Jarvis would allow him to not take his medicine. Obie’s distrust of him, however well earned, stings though and he feels the tears from before rise to clog his throat again, turning the weak laugh into a sound more like a dry sob. “No, no I have. I promise I have Obie,” he rushes to reassure, words falling over themselves and eyes drilling into the other man’s, as though he can will that belief into Obie’s brain.

 

Obie’s raised eyebrow says he doesn’t believe him and that Tony’s telepathic skills are sorely lacking but he says anyway, in a sardonic tone, “Then what seems to be the problem?”

 

Tony’s eyes drop to the table top and a blush mars his cheeks, but he is too desperate for embarrassment to permit him to prevaricate so it is with minimal fidgeting that he says softly, “I need the bathroom and I can’t undo these pants without help.”

 

Tony glances up from under his eyelashes and sees Obie looking surprised and with a twisted sort of smile that can only come from the hysterical embarrassment that Tony himself feels. “Why did you put them on?” he says exasperatedly, “And why didn’t you go earlier?” He sounds like a teacher.

 

Tony is infamous for back-chatting his teacher’s but right now he really _really_ doesn’t have time to get into a debate about this. “I wanted to look nice for the Board. And I didn’t need earlier.”

 

There is a long uncomfortable silence. Obie breaks it at last. “Tony I don’t know that I really feel comfortable...Why don’t you go on home? I’ll make your excuses to the Board and Jarvis can-”

“I don’t have time,” Tony bites out, “Honestly, I doubt I can stand up without pissing myself.”

 

“Tony-”

 

Tony drops his pride to the floor. “Please Obie. I know what I’m asking, believe me, I’m not any more comfortable with it than you are, but please don’t let me piss myself. Not here.” His voice cracks slightly, “Please.”          

 

For another interminably long moment Obie hesitates then he says, “Of course I’ll help you Tony.” 

He sounds almost offended and Tony realises how ridiculous and insulting he’s been to assume that Obie needs to hear him beg before he would help him. “I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I didn’t mean to...I know you will. Thanks Obie, I mean it, I do. Can we go now?”

 

“Of course,” Obie says again and comes around to Tony’s chair to help him stand.

 

Tony would love to tell him he doesn’t need that help, but he does, the desperation eating through him like acid. The supporting arm Obie puts round his waist pushes in just the wrong place and a few drops of urine squeeze out, wetting his boxers and creating a slight, but noticeable, damp stain on his pants. Tony whimpers audibly and jerks away.

Obie follows his gaze down and freezes, tension running through his own frame. “I’m sorry Tony,” he says softly.

 

“No,” Tony manages through gritted teeth, taking a stumbling, reeling step towards the door. “It’s my fault, I should have said something earlier.”

 

“You could hardly ask me for help going pee-pee with your Board of Directors looking on,” Obie says dryly.

 

Tony colours slightly at the condescending term but doesn’t respond because yes, that’s what he’d thought too whilst he’d been fighting the instinct to squirm in his seat but that would actually have been far preferable to this. He really isn’t sure if he’s going to make it as far as the bathroom and soaking his pants will be far, far worse than asking Obie for a quiet word outside because he needed help with something would have been.

 

It seems to take hours, and with every step the water sloshes painfully in Tony’s bladder but eventually they reach the bathroom. Tony would sob with relief, but the fact is, he’s already crying from the pain and strain of clenching so tightly. Obie hesitates in the doorway, somewhat at a loss and Tony brushes past him, heading straight for the urinal on the far wall. Obie steps up behind him and hesitates again before putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him towards one of the cubicles. Tony cries out with frustration but Obie talks over him, “It will be more private if someone else comes in.”

 

The thought of someone else seeing him like this forces another wounded sound out of Tony’s throat, and the shame of allowing that noise to escape makes him bite out, “Just fucking get it over with,” more sharply than he had intended.

 

“Now Tony, there’s no reason to be rude,” Obie chides.

 

He doesn’t sound angry really, but his hands have stilled and Tony just knows he’s going to burst if he doesn’t empty his bladder right the fuck now “I know, I’m sorry,” he whimpers desperately, “I need so bad though Obie, please, _please_.”

 

“Alright,” Obie says, rolling his shoulders and visibly steeling himself. He reaches for Tony’s fly and undoes it slowly. His hand twitches and a grimace of disgust crosses his face as he touches the damp fabric but, thankfully, he doesn’t hesitate. Tony’s blush darkens and he fixes his gaze on the wall, trying to remove himself from the situation as Obie takes his most intimate part and pulls it out.

 

For a moment he’s squeezing too hard, controlling the flow, still preventing Tony from doing what needs done. “Obie,” Toy pants out, whatever else he might have said lost in a pleading whine that sounds like nothing so much as a puppy scratching at the door to be let out. Then Obie loosens his fingers and finally he can empty himself. The release is better than any sexual experience Tony has ever, ever had. He groans deep and loud and obscene and his head drops back to Obie’s shoulder.

 

Obie does not seem to notice or care. He lets Tony finish and zips him back into his pants before letting go of him and crossing the room swiftly to wash his hands. The slight disgust is still on his face and Tony has to look away from it, dropping his head down and panting raggedly to regain his equilibrium. After a moment he raises his head, forcing himself to stand straight, a habit Howard drummed into him. He still isn’t looking in Obie’s eyes though. “Thank you,” he says, hoarse and unsteady, unfeigned gratitude fairly bleeding out of him. This is no display of rare good manners; Tony has never been so grateful for anything in his life than he is for the fact that Obie just spared him the worst humiliation he can imagine.

 

And Obie, Obie who has always stuck by him, even when he is at his worst, offers him a small half smile, still shaded by awkwardness from what has just transpired but says in a steady, sincere tone nonetheless, “Always Tony. You know I’m always here for you.”

 

_Obadiah Interlude #4_

_This time the plan goes perfectly. Better than perfectly. It's more than can be hoped for because there was always a slight element of luck to this particular plan, but he knows Tony is at his most agreeable when he is apologetic so he considers it an acceptable risk. He spends a few minutes out the front of the SI building reinforcing Tony's inclination to trust him. He even offers him compliments as though it doesn't burn his tongue to ash to say them after the bile Tony spewed at the restaurant._

_Tony blushes prettily, obviously touched by his words and apologises himself. It's the second thing which surprises Obadiah, the first being the nice suit Tony is wearing, and he wonders if Jarvis forced him into it the way he used to force him to wear nice clothes to functions when he was a child._

_And in the end, it is a simple matter to get Tony to drink the water laced with a diuretic. He is thirsty, and he is hot, and Obadiah's words have given him every reason to trust him. Obadiah doesn't even hold the bottle too far away, making sure he can drink it easily. He encourages to him to drain the bottle._

_Then all he has to do is sit back and watch. It is all he can do to pay enough attention to the meeting to know what is happening. Tony is obviously on his best behaviour, trying so hard to make up for his behaviour in the restaurant in the only way he believes Obadiah will understand. And, to that end, he tries his best not to fidget in his seat, though, Obadiah, looking so closely for the signs, can tell he is, and doesn't ask to break the meeting early nor to speak to Obadiah alone. It is almost absurd how easy Tony is to manipulate, Obadiah thinks again._

_By the time they do finally break for lunch, it is clear Tony is desperate, but Obadiah has spent so long deliberately and intently character assassinating him to the rest of the Board that they barely even notice, reading the obvious pleading in his voice as childish whining. He makes Tony wait as long as is possible, but this plan really depends on being able to save Tony from what he doubtless perceives as a fate worse than death. Which is not to say Obadiah doesn't have a plan B in the form of a spare pair of pants (for when I sleep in the office Tony), but ideally he needs Tony to genuinely believe he is going to wet himself like a baby in front of the people who run his company and have Obadiah save him from it._

_That part too goes like a dream. He is the only person Tony can ask for help and he judges that Tony's embarrassment stems from the nature of what he is asking for, not the act of asking itself. It's exactly as he's aiming for. And after, when he has proved in the most visceral and crudest way he can imagine, just how much Tony does need him, it is obvious that the boy believes him when Obadiah tells him he will always be there to do so._

 

CHAPTER 5: Tony POV

 

Tony barely leaves the house for the rest of the time he is healing. Jarvis tries to delay his imminent retirement, to be there for Tony through the final healing processes, but Obie won’t hear a word of it. Jarvis has worked for the Stark’s for decades, he won’t hear of him giving up more of his life for work, for which there are other people equally suited. Jarvis argues back, and Tony thinks the blank, confused look on Obie’s face as he finds someone who does not roll over for his genial commands faintly funny. “It’s alright Jarvis,” he says at last, once Obie looks like he’s on the brink of sacking the butler just to get him to take the rest they all know he deserves. “The casts come off in a few days, and Obie can look after me.”

 

Jarvis looks at him sharply like he’s searching for deception. Tony doesn’t really understand why. He’s selfish to a fault, he’d never tell Jarvis he’d be fine if he wouldn’t be. He’d insist Jarvis stayed and retirement plans be damned. And besides, Obie can look after him. He’s proved that. “Come on,” Tony says somewhat impatiently. “I know you’re going on vacation with your granddaughter. You wouldn’t want to let her down.”

 

Jarvis nods slowly, and casts his gaze back over Obie, “If you’re certain sir,” he says hesitantly.

 

“He’ll be fine, I’ll see to it,” Obie answers, and Tony doesn’t even think it odd that he is permitting Obie to answer for him.

 

Jarvis hesitates for another second and Tony says, “I can’t name my AI after you if you’re still in the house. That would be weird. And confusing.”

 

“Very well sir,” Jarvis says softly. He stops beside Tony on his way to the door and Tony senses that he wants to say or do something, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t. “Look after yourself sir,” he says at last, “And stay in touch.”

 

Tony smiles bright and sunny. “Have a good time J.”

 

When he has left the room seems silent and oppressive. Tony finds himself looking at Obie, waiting for instruction on what he should do next. “You said Jarvis had been good enough to set you up a recording studio? Let’s see it. I want to know what ideas you’ve been coming up with.”

 

Tony’s smile doesn’t widen but his eyes brighten. He loves nothing more than talking about his inventions and ideas, particularly if he can’t work on them. “Yeah, yeah sure.”

 

“And I think we should move your robots back to the house. There’s no reason for you to get rid of them, they’re pioneer robotic work, but if they cause accidents they have no place in an industrial laboratory.”

 

Something inside of Tony tightens. He does love his robots, the way most people adore their pets and the idea of them cooped up in the house when he cannot always be here is distressing. They’re learning systems, they need people. “I could...” he hesitates slightly and forces himself on, “I could donate them to a city college? They won’t be doing anything too dangerous there and the bots would like that.” He catches the look on Obie’s face and determinedly doesn’t flush, but averts his gaze and amends, “The kids would too. My robots are cool.”

 

Obie nods and places a too understanding hand on his shoulder. “I think that’s a good idea Tony, but why don’t you bring them home just for a couple of weeks to say goodbye to them.”

 

It’s actually creepy how well Obie understands him, but he still defensively snips out, “They’re machines Obie, just like the coffee maker.”

 

Obie smiles knowingly, “You’d be distraught if anything happened to the coffee maker.”

 

Tony’s lips twitch, but he can’t deny the truth of the statement.

 

Obie doesn’t change his light tone when he says, “You don’t have to of course, but those robots have been with you a long time and no one can deny that they have...personality. Bring them home to say goodbye and do any final adjustments you’ve convinced yourself must be done and then donate them. OK?”

 

It’s the kind of understanding Howard would never have given him, Howard had never understood just how attached Tony got to his creations, especially the ones that could think. He suddenly remembers climbing onto Obie’s lap and demanding a story when he was very small, not because he couldn’t read for himself, but because sometimes it was just nice to share a story with someone, and, unlike Howard, Obie had obliged. It occurs to Tony abruptly that the hot fierce feeling in his chest is love. 

 

The feeling embarrasses him slightly, both with its intensity and with the fact that he didn’t realise it before. Of course he loves Obie, Obie who’s always there for him and cares for him and has protected him in ways it would never occur to anyone else to do. And so what if he sometimes makes mistakes? Tony is always fucking things up, and Obie never judges him for it, the least he can do is return the courtesy.

 

He turns the same blinding smile he reserves for rare times in his workshop with his bots on Obie,

 

“Let me build something for you,” he says because he knows no other way to express what he has suddenly realised he feels for the one person who can, and will, take care of him. “I think I’ve figured out how to fix the problems dad had with that flying car. Want a flying car Obie?”

 

“Oh Tony, surely you’re too old to be messing about with things like that.” Tony’s face falls, but brightens again when Obie continues, “The military contracts are being re-evaluated this year and it would bring SI up by a dozen or more stock points if we could secure a place as the only contractor for the US military. Let’s focus on urban warfare technology.”

 

Tony makes a face, “Bombs are boring.”

 

“Bombs big enough to explode buildings are not boring,” Obie says, and there’s something of the schoolboy he once must have been in his face. 

 

Tony can’t resist an answering smirk of his own. Big explosions are cool he supposes. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he promises, mind already compiling schematics. His pace quickens slightly as he presses forward to the recording studio to record his ideas, fingers twitching slightly in their bandages. Behind him, unseen, Obadiah Stane smiles.

 

_Epilogue: Obadiah POV_

_Even whichever higher power is ordering the universe seems to be in his favour. On his exercise the Rhodes boy is promoted and based further away, unable to be always in Tony's pocket as they have spent so much of their lives, and Jarvis, the interfering old man, is finally gone. Tony is alone with Obadiah. His physical helplessness is soon healed, but his experiences have taught him to rely on Obadiah, to listen to him, to do as he says, and even when he does step out of line it takes little to recondition him. Especially since many of the things Tony enjoys doing, even when they are to the detriment of SI and his own public image, actually benefit Obadiah enormously. For every charity gala and official award which Tony is unforgivably late for, or incompetently drunk at, Obadiah's status rises, and the more leeway he has to bury his own projects within SI's R &D department. He doesn’t have the flair for creating that Tony does, but making big money is his specialty._

_Tony never does get rid of the robots, but he keeps them in his own private workshop after that, and keeps them away from other people, afraid of them hurting anyone else. Obadiah is content to allow that, they are nothing more than high class toys this way and their isolation prevents anyone asking about them and encouraging Tony to create robots for labour. The real money is in weaponry anyway. And for every day Tony keeps the robots cloistered away from the public is one more day where he is proving that he doesn’t trust them. He trusts Obadiah though, handing him the key to disabling JARVIS without thinking, in case of emergency he says, and rendering his most able defender helpless against his only real enemy._

_Eventually though, after years of getting fat on Tony's innovative creations, the bombs are nothing newer than different, shiner casing, and it's time to get rid of the only loose end left. Obadiah almost always attends the demonstrations intended to hook any contracts larger than one million, but when Tony is invited to Afghanistan, Obadiah encourages him to go alone._

_The best thing of all is that the idiot thanks him for it, knowing that after his deplorable behaviour at Caesar's Palace, Obadiah has no reason to let him slip his leash. Obadiah can't wait for the videos the Ten Rings have promised him. He's looking forward to seeing the cocky little shit taken down a few pegs. It's just a shame he won't be the one to do it._

 

  

 

* * *

 


End file.
